homeless at harvard (excerpt)

8/22/2019 Homeless at Harvard (excerpt)

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ZONDERVAN

Homeless at HarvardCopyright 2013 by John Christopher Frame

This title is also available as a Zondervan ebook. Visit www.zondervan.com/ebooks.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Frame, John Christopher, 1978-

Homeless at Harvard : finding faith and friendship on the streets of Harvard

Square / John Christopher Frame.

pages cm

ISBN 978-0-310-31867-5 (pbk.)

1. Homeless persons Massachusetts Cambridge. 2. Harvard Square

(Cambridge, Mass.) Social conditions. I . Title.

HV4506.M4 F73 2013

362.5'62092 dc23 2013001839

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The poem Is Love Not Timeless? written by Dane Alan Brun, is printed with his permission.

Cover design: Faceout Studio

Cover photography: Aysegl Bektas Frame

Interior illustration: iStockphoto

Interior design: Sarah Johnson

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Contents

Note to the Reader.............................................. 7

Introduction.....................................................11

In the Words of George ..............................................17

In the Words of Chubby John .....................................19

1. The Camp and the CooP............................23

2. Copper Coins and a Wooden Cross.......... 41

In the Words of Neal................................................. 59

In the Words of Dane................................................. 63

3. Freedom and Friends ................................67

4. Danger in the Dark....................................85

In the Words of Chubby John .................................... 99

In the Words of Neal ................................................103

5. Prayer in the Park ................................. 107

6. The In Crowd ................................................119

In the Words of George ............................................ 135

In the Words of Dane................................................137

In the Words of Neal ................................................143

7. Divinity Dialogue .................................... 147

8. 911 ................................................................... 165

In the Words of Neal ................................................ 179

In the Words of Dane................................................183

9. Hospitals and Hotdogs ........................... 191Conclusion .......................................................203


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INTRODUCTION

Istood and gawked. Bundled in warm blankets and sleeping bags,people were asleep and nestled under the outdoor alcove of the Har-

vard Coop bookstore, across the street and about a hundred feet

away from the gates of Harvard Yard. They were motionless, like

bodies ready to be picked up by an undertaker; lonely, like campers

expelled from an expedition.

I had decided to get off the subway to look around a place that

was as foreign to me as the homeless individuals now sleeping in my

presence. I was sightseeing that October night while in Boston for a

conference. However, I wasnt expecting to see anything, or rather

anyone, like this in Harvard Square, the business district aroundHarvard University.

Leaving Harvard Square that night, I didnt know if Id ever

walk by that bookstore again. Soon, though, Id meet some of the

people who had slept there. And less than two years later, I was

sleeping there myself.

That night was similar to a night a year earlier in London, Eng-

land, when I met a homeless man who was sitting on a sidewalk next


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12 HOMELESS AT HARVARD

to a King Rooster fast-food chicken restaurant. I had walked by him

twice, and then wrestled with a voice within me telling me to turn

around, go back, and offer him one of the two bananas I had just

purchased at the corner market. I gave in to it.

As I approached the man, he reached out his hand and said in

a British accent, Sir, could you do me a favor? Heres five pounds.

Will you go in there and buy me a dinner? As he dropped the coins

in my palm, I noticed that his hand was cold and chapped, cracked

and seeping blood.

This was my first experience of meeting a homeless person, andhe was giving memoney, entrusting me with perhaps all the money

he had. I asked him what he would like. Chicken dinner was all

he said, in a broken, almost stuttering voice. When I returned with

his meal, we talked for a while on the sidewalk, his two-liter bottle

of white cider beside him. We shared the same first name, and I

learned that John had a debilitating muscular disease, a teenage son,

and a mother he loved but had not seen in a long time.

John sat on the sidewalk and his cane rested against the restau-

rant. Passersby gave him coins, which he graciously accepted, and

after a few minutes, a man and a woman joined us. John openly

shared with us about his troubles. He cried as we prayed together,

as if his brokenness or maybe it was hopelessness needed to be

heard. Though I left John that night to return to the comforts of myprivileges, our brief encounter stayed with me.

I grew up in a red brick house with a large, narrow lawn that my

friends and I imagined as a major league baseball field. All sum-

mer long we played baseball with a yellow plastic bat and ball, try-ing to hit the ball over the fence into the church parking lot behind


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I NTRODUCT ION 13

the parsonage where I lived. I announced every hit and strikeout as

if I were broadcasting it like the radio voice of the Detroit Tigers,

Ernie Harwell, and we dreamed of being as good as the players

pictured on our bubblegum cards. Then wed ride our bikes and

play cops and robbers with my collection of cap guns and metal

handcuffs, which looked as genuine as the ones in the police shows

on TV. Because my dad was the pastor of a small church and my

mom was a part-time teacher, my sister and I didnt grow up in

a rich family. We had everything we needed, though, and most

things any boy would hope to have, like a Nintendo, a cocker span-iel named Dixie who was my best friend, a newspaper route, and

a fishing pole and a tackle box. Each night, Id help set the table

that my family gathered around for a homemade meal, and I was

in our church several times each week. Besides seeing a few people

around our city who looked down and out, I really knew nothing

about homelessness.

In my late twenties, while pursuing a masters degree at Ander-

son University School of Theology, I felt inspired to get to know

those who were living on the streets. My friends at Anderson, the

author of a book I had read, and spring break trips to Atlanta to

serve with a homeless ministry there helped me better understand

how Christians should be concerned about the poor.

The day after I moved into my dorm on Harvards campus in

2008 to begin a theology degree, I met a homeless man, George,

sitting near his bedding, which was strewn out in front of a bank in

Harvard Square. George helped me learn more about homelessness,

as did some of his friends, such as Chubby John. I began spend-

ing time with them and also volunteering at the student-run Har-

vard Square Homeless Shelter, partly to fulfill a requirement for aPoverty Law class I was enrolled in. I began learning more about


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homelessness and about the relationships that help homeless people

survive on the streets.

In a leadership class I took at Harvard, my professor taught

us about translating life experiences into new actions that serve a

greater purpose. I thought some more about how what I was learn-

ing about homelessness could be translated into something that

could benefit others. For a long time, Id wanted to write a book

that could somehow make a difference, and I thought that by shar-

ing my experiences with homeless people more broadly, I could help

others think about building relationships with people on the streets.It seems that those who do not know homeless people are often

unaware of their circumstances and struggles. In general, many of

us are unaware of how the homeless view themselves and their diffi-

culties. Were unaware of how similar we are to individuals who are

panhandling on the sidewalk. A glimpse of the experiences of those

who live on the streets could help change that, I thought.The thought of temporarily staying on the streets with the home-

less had begun to grow in my mind since my second spring-break

trip to Atlanta. So while taking my final class at Harvard during

the summer of 2009, I took the plunge and slept outside among the

homeless community for ten weeks. I didnt do it as a way to emulate

Christ or to show that living on the streets is more righteous than

living in a home. And I didnt do it in an effort to save people on the

streets from their homelessness. Rather, I hoped it would give me a

chance to learn about homelessness as an insider, which would bet-

ter enable me to write about the stories and struggles of those who

were really homeless; and I could share what it was like to spend a

summer on the streets.

This book is not a story about meas a homeless person, for I was


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I NTRODUCT ION 15

never truly homeless. Rather, its a story about a homeless commu-

nity and how my life and the lives of those on the streets were woven

together into a special tapestry.

For me, hanging out on the streets was only temporary. I did not

give up one life to embrace another. I could not put aside the fact that

I had a loving family, and that I was a student at Harvard Divinity

School with access to Harvard buildings, books, and bathrooms that

my homeless friends didnt have access to. But despite having privi-

leges that my homeless friends didnt have, they accepted me, just like

they accepted each other. The gap between us didnt seem to matter.The homeless community befriended me and shared with me some

of the wisdom theyd gained from years of living in their culture.

The ten weeks I spent on the streets provided me with an experi-

ence Id never had before. It gave me a chance to begin new friend-

ships and to deepen relationships with people I already knew, such

as Dane. Dane was a former cocaine addict and notorious crimi-

nal whod had an epiphany after losing one of his toes, setting him

in a new direction. However, he remained on the streets. Another

was Neal, who had been sleeping outside for many years in Har-

vard Square. Over the summer, he and I talked about life and love,

friendship and faith. Although he claimed to live a happy-go-lucky

life, by the end of the summer, I learned about the health problems

that he endured.In this book, youre going to meet some of those friends, such as

Neal, Dane, Chubby John, and George.

Welcome to the community of the homeless at Harvard.


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In the Words of

GEORGE

I was pretty much buzzed that first night I met John. He was newto me. And you know how many students I used to see? Id prob-

ably seen more than the professors in their classrooms throughout

the year. We kept talking. Once I talk to somebody, I wont forget

their name. I got to know John, and he was trying to figure out

what it was l ike out here. I said, Yeah, Ill show you the ropes, if

you want to see them. But that was up to him to decide, not me.

When he came out here for the summer, I was just wondering if he

was going to turn around and say heck with school and be stuck

on the streets like the rest of the people. Because Ive seen that.

The street will grab ya.

I was in junior high when I came down here to Harvard Square.

We used to steal bikes. It was so easy to steal bikes and sell them.

Back in them days, they didnt have bike racks; students just

left their bikes out there when they went to class. Then I caught

the second riot for the Vietnam War here in Harvard Square. We

skipped school and were up in the Coop bookstore watching

them. I think I was ten, maybe eleven.I got involved with drinking and then drugs and all that, and


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getting in trouble here and there, and the family was getting upset.

They hated me being on the street when they found out. I had a lot

of runaway problems. They were always searching; I kept hiding.

My family never threw me out. I just would get up and go. Id get in

an argument with my dad, and I hauled out of there. Nothing on my

dad; it was just an excuse for me to get back out there and party

with friends. My parents were good parents. My familys a good

family. I was the only screwball out of the seven kids.

I got hooked up with some solid people on the street, and then

the street grabbed me. Thats just what happens. Youre out there

for a while and you get used to it, and the street ends up grabbing

you. You dont realize it until its too late. It was so comfortable

being out there everyone giving you everything.

On the streets, theres more freedom and less rules. I wanted

to get off the streets quite a few times. It just didnt happen. Ive

had plenty of opportunities. I got jobs bartending and taking care

of properties and stuff. But here comes the drugs again, and theregoes the job. Thank God that I have no interest with drugs any-

more. We were drinkers and pot smokers. I was smoking crack

cocaine off and on for years. We did some drugs, but I didnt con-

sider myself an addict. I could take it or leave it. But I considered

myself an alcoholic. I havent had drugs in years. And I havent

smoked pot in over a year and a half.


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In the Words of

CHUBBY JOHN

If youre going to be homeless anywhere, Harvard Square is prob-ably the best place to be. I know personally that there are services

in Cambridge for the homeless, and theres no problem raising

money. If youre hungry, you just tell somebody walking down the

street and somebodys going to buy you a sandwich or pizza. I met

many students just sitting on the street asking for money or asking

for whatever I needed that particular day. I met many good ones

out there.

For the homeless in general, I think everybody pretty much

looks out for each other. You dont have to be a close friend with

anybody, but they know who you are and you know who they are.

Youre all out there together. There are good and bad, like in all

walks of life. Youre going to meet homeless people who are out

there who are well-educated, excellent people. Many of the home-

less I met when I was out on the street in Harvard, Im still friends

with today. Many of them are now housed. Some of them are still

on the street. I still visit with my friends over there, have a cup of

coffee at the cafe and hang out.I remember a good guy we knew out in the street named Jimmy.


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Jimmy passed away, but he was the most generous, giving guy

that youd ever want to meet. When I first got my apartment, I was

back in Harvard Square and I ran into him. And he said, Sit with

me and have a beer. The man didnt have a pot to pee in, and he

told me, You ever have any problems paying your rent, you come

and see me. Ill run around through this traffic and get you every

penny I can get. And while I was out on the street, a man who has

no money and was collecting money in a cup used to put money in

my cup, and Id always tell him, Why are you doing that?

And hed say, Because its the right thing to do. I made a little

extra today, so Ill help you out.

And Id say, But youre going to need that a li tt le later on, or

tomorrow.

And hed say, Nah, its alright; dont worry about it.

My first year of homelessness was down on the South Shore. I

was staying in the woods in tents. I later stayed in a shelter in Har-

vard Square and got a job, putting money aside to work on gettinghousing without any assistance.

Then I had a heart attack, and everything changed.

Down on the South Shore, my old campsite wasnt the best. At the

time, I thought that it was, though. But it was probably one of the

worst. So I had hunted around the whole woods for a better place

to camp. I found a better hidden spot, and I thought, This is the

spot. Youre not far from the subway. Youre not far from the water

fountain. Nobodys ever going to find you. Dog-walkers dont go

over in that area. Nobody goes over in that area. It was the perfect

spot in the world to go to.

Later on, when I needed a spot in the woods to stay again, that

was where I was going back to. And I went there and set up camp.And then another fr iend of mine came and set up camp with me.


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I N THE WORDS OF CHUBBY JOHN 2 1

That was a nice little spot. Nobody ever found us. After I got my

apartment, my fr iend from the South Shore stayed there for two

years and nobody ever found him. And there were only four or five

people who knew where that spot was.

To get there, youd come down the road and there was this big

tree. I made sure I had some landmark so Id know how to get in

there. Once you passed the tree, and you cut off to the right, there

was a path. I cut the path out with a machete. I should have zig-

zagged it a little more.

It could get pretty dark down there on some nights. When the

cloud cover was low and heavy, and you had no moon or starl ight

to get in there, sometimes I had to use the little glow of my cell

phone to find my way.

If you walked straight down the path and then went off to the

left, there was a small tent where my friend stayed. Then there was

a tent straight ahead where John stayed for his week out there.

Then there was a tent over on the righthand side where I stayed.And we kind of had the middle area with a few chairs. I called it the

living room in the middle. It was just a space to hang out.


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One

THE CAMP AND

THE COOP

Like harmless citizens unalarmed by the officers presence, wecalmly walked in front of the police cruiser, on the opposite side ofthe road, hoping the officer would ignore us. We walked as though

we were out for a late-night stroll, not as though we were on our way

to sleep in a nearby patch of woods. When the officer couldnt see us

anymore, we crossed the street and successfully entered the pitch-

black forest where Chubby John had made his home.

One of our friends had given Chubby John his name that sum-

mer, but I always just called him John. People never would have

suspected he was homeless, unless they saw him shaking a cup on

the sidewalk outside the twenty-four-hour CVS Pharmacy. The

first time Chubby John accompanied me to an afternoon tea event

on Harvards campus, he had a conversation with an elderly man

there and evaded every question about where he lived. I sure wasnt

gonna tell him I was homeless, he told me. All the valuable thingsin that place? They woulda checked my pockets before I left.


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From the first time I met Chubby John, he always reminded me

of Hal, a fiftysomething man from the town I grew up in. John was

younger than Hal, but like him, he always wore blue jeans and a hat

and easily made friends with strangers. They were both opinionated

and used their hands expressively as they talked, engaging me with

their stories, which I could listen to for hours. Hal ate Milk-Bones

sometimes and told me once he could poop in his living room with

people standing around watching him. Chubby John said he had a

plan to end homelessness forever if he could just convince the right

elected officials to implement his idea.I met Chubby John around the time I began volunteering at the

Harvard Square Homeless Shelter. A few months after I met him, he

did me a huge favor by meeting me at the hospital after I had minor

surgery on my little finger. I felt a little humiliated when Chubby

John saw me in the hospital bed. My blankets and hospital gown

covered me, but I was still embarrassed, knowing that underneath

the gown I was stark naked, as white as the sheets on the bed. My

hand was bandaged with a dressing that looked like a boxing glove,

as if I had been wounded in a fight.

A one-hour surgery on my finger didnt seem to warrant having

to be escorted out of the hospital. Most guys would have asked their

girlfriend or parents to pick them up. I didnt have a girlfriend, and

my parents lived more than eight hundred miles away. So I askedChubby John.

Chubby John had been homeless for three or four years, and ever

since Id known him, hed been living in the woods or the Harvard

Square Homeless Shelter in the basement of Harvard Squares Uni-

versity Lutheran Church. Chubby John had always seen me as a vol-

unteer, as a student, and as someone who sometimes hung out onthe sidewalk to chat. Now he was seeing me in a vulnerable situation,


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THE CAMP AND THE COOP 25

and he was my ticket to getting released. We walked out of the hos-

pital into the cold February wind, and because Chubby John didnt

have a car, we boarded the subway back to Harvard Square.

As we walked to his camp a few months later, Chubby John wasnt

just someone I hung out with in my free time; he was my mentor.

John had invited me to stay in one of his extra tents at his secret

campsite after I expressed interest in spending the summer with

the homeless.

John oriented me to the area, like a manager instructing a newemployee. We had taken the subway pretty far south of Harvard

Square to the South Shore, a few miles south of Boston. I mentally

took notes so I could find my way to the campsite.

Walk through the Stop & Shop parking lot, toward the medical

clinic. Walk through the banks parking lot; turn right at the corner.

Walk ten minutes past the Catholic church, and turn right at the high

school.

As we walked, spotting the police cruiser parked about a hun-

dred yards from where we needed to enter the woods, Chubby John

told me, The cops around here hate homeless people. You sure

dont want to run into cops down here.

On Harvards campus, the police were always friendly, but I had

never taken the subway quite this far south. Apparently I had a lotto learn.

If the police ever stop you, just give em your ID. Dont offer

em any information, Chubby John warned me a couple of days

later. Only answer the questions they ask you. If they ask you where

youre going, say up the street. If they ask you where you live, say

wherever I lay my head. Even after hearing horror stories from Chubby John about the


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police, though, I didnt feel worried. I imagined that for me, an

encounter with the police would involve showing the officer my

Harvard ID and probably receiving a strange look and a good day.

To Chubby John, even thinking about the police may have reminded

him of hiding while the police wandered through the woods with

their German shepherd.

Once we reached the woods, I followed Chubby John down

a winding path through large shrubs, weeds, and trees. For him,

walking through the woods at midnight with only the light from

the moon was something he did each night. I had to use the tinybuilt-in flashlight on my prepaid cell phone so I wouldnt stumble

or get poked in the eye by a tree limb.

The other night, Chubby John said quietly, I was walkin

through here and some crazy animal came out tryin to attack me.

Reenacting the event with his shoulder bag, he said, I took my bag

and went whamand scared it away. I think it was a crazy coon or

somethin. Chubby John was always animated when he spoke. He

had a Boston accent, and he talked something like the guys in the

movie Good Will Hunting. And when he spoke, he almost never said

um or uh. It was like a special gift he had.

It took us only about one minute to walk down the path to the

campsite. Jims sleeping over there, Chubby John said, pointing his

flashlight toward a two-man tent that housed his friend. And that oneis yours, he said, pointing to a larger tent tucked into the brush and

trees that was covered with a tarp weighed down by pools of water.

We stood in the middle of the camp the living room next

to a pile of empty beer cans and three green fabric lawn chairs that

Chubby John had found abandoned in Harvard Square. We talked

in the dark of the night as if we were still on the sidewalk in front of

the CVS Pharmacy in the middle of the afternoon.


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I want to get one of those screen tents and a grill and set it right

here so I can cook out and not get wet or eaten up by mosquitoes,

he said, motioning with his hands how and where he dreamed about

developing the site. Some clothes hung over low tree limbs, soaked

from the rain, with little possibility of drying out in the cold, wet

June weather.

The woods were bordered by a paved road, a large field, and a

salt marsh that receded with the daily ocean tides. On the other

side of the marsh was a subdivision; its inhabitants were oblivious

to our existence, as were the people who played sports on the fieldand drove by on the road. John was proud of finding this patch of

woods.

I didnt enjoy being away from running water and a clean bed,

but I was extremely grateful to John for the tent he had ready for me.

Although I was mentally prepared to begin my summer among the

homeless, I was not ready for a cold night in the woods. Actually, I

was dreading it. I had left my sleeping bag, blanket, and sweatshirt

in the divinity school library, unaware that it would close before

my class ended that evening. I had on a button-down dress shirt

and jeans not exactly what youd want to wear into the forest on

a cold, rainy night.

Ive got an extra sleeping bag in my tent, Chubby John said.

Ive never used it. Somebody gave it to me, and Ive kept it just incase somebody needed it. I couldnt pass up his offer. Anything

would be better than spending the night in a cold, wet tent without

a sleeping bag in clothes that I didnt want to get dirty.

Chubby John crawled into his tent, and I peeked for the first

time into the place he considered home. Though I knew he slept in

the woods, I had no idea what this part of his life was really like. Heused a reclining lawn chair topped with a warm sleeping bag as his


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bed. See, Ive got my radio and everything in here, he said as he

reached for the extra sleeping bag, which was neatly rolled up.

I took the sleeping bag and wiggled my way past a few shrub

twigs to the tent. I used the flashlight on my cell phone to look

inside before crawling in, and noticed a large puddle of water just

inside the door.

I untied the sleeping bag, which released an odor that apparently

had been marinating for quite some time. As I laid the sleeping bag

diagonally across the middle of the wet floor, I felt as though my

hands were becoming dirty. I laid down on top of it, but there wasno way I could bring myself to unzip it and crawl inside. I could

feel a tree stump poking into my back and the ground sloping both

sideways and down.

The temperature outside was dipping into the fifties, and it felt

like my body temperature was not far behind. Taking my arms out

of the sleeves of my T-shirt, I tucked them near my chest and used

my long-sleeve shirt as a blanket and cover for my head. I looked

like a guy strapped in a straitjacket who had just died. I took deep

breaths, blowing into my shirt like a cold dragon, trying to keep

warm. Each exhalation gave me about three seconds of reprieve, but

no matter what I did, I was cold.

Im going to have to get inside the sleeping bag,I thought in des-

peration.I hoped the inside of it wouldnt smell as bad as Id imag-ined it might.

It did.

I unzipped the bag and sniffed inside. It was like sticking my

nose into a pile of dirty laundry. I zipped the bag back up. Ill just

be cold,I resolved.

I had thought a lot about being in the woods with Chubby John.

I had envisioned a dry tent, but rainwater had made the entire floor


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wet. I had envisioned warm weather, but now I was fighting goose

bumps. I had envisioned being happy as I nestled into my tent, but

now I was discontent, like a vacationer whod envisioned a trip to

Maui but wound up in northern Siberia. And although we were

tucked away in the woods, I knew that anybody or anything could

come through the camp at any time.

I woke up the next morning to the voices of Chubby John and

Jim, who were sitting in lawn chairs in their living room, smoking

cigarettes and drinking beer. I unzipped the tent, inconspicuously

relieved myself in the woods, and emerged from the cavelike bushes.John, this is Jim, Chubby John said.

We shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. Jim was a burly

man about fifty years old who had been homeless for twenty-five

years; his most distinctive feature was a bushy gray moustache. He

had been drinking and seemed in good spirits, even though he had

woken in the middle of the night to walk to an agency to try to sign

up at 4:30 a.m. for a day-labor job. Lately, though, the prospects of

work were so grim that he and the other men looking for day-labor

jobs were often turned away.

Howd ya sleep? Chubby John asked me.

Not so well.

Oh, it takes a couple nights to get used to the sounds of the

woods, he assured me. I didnt want to tell John that I had beencold or that I couldnt bear the smell of the inside of the sleeping

bag. Neither were his fault.

Jim handed me two strawberry granola bars. The tents a lot

better than the cement, especially in the winter, he said. After my

restless nights sleep, I couldnt imagine sleeping on cement, espe-

cially in the freezing cold.

I itched to get back to Harvard Square the Square, as most of


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us called it. As we left, John commented, Its good to have differ-

ent people peeing in the woods, ya know. It keeps the coyotes away.

They think theres a pack around here, and it scares them.

Maybe he was right. I wasnt going to argue. I was just glad that

John was happy to have me there.

When you live on the streets, you eat as cheaply as you can. You take

food from strangers who offer it. You go to the free weekly dinners

at local churches. You wait in front of the Upper Crust Pizzeria after11:00 p.m. hoping for leftovers when they close. You take promo-

tional items, like free Vitaminwater, being passed out on sunny days

by companies marketing their products in busy Harvard Square,

a hub for smart, bourgeois young people. I even filled out surveys

and did a little test for psychology students that netted me a piece of

candy for my participation. And each week there were street min-

istries providing food to people on the streets. There was a saying

among the homeless community that if youre homeless in Harvard

Square and you starve to death, its your own fault.

Most of the people I knew on the streets, some of whom received

benefits from the government, would have gone hungry before eat-

ing out of the dumpster. Andy, however, often scavenged in trash

bins in hopes of finding scraps of leftovers tossed by patrons of themany yuppie restaurants that filled the Square. We all felt sorry

for him. Andy would mumble to himself as he walked around and

sometimes waved his hands erratically, as if he were fighting off

a ghost only he could see. Most of the time, his facial expression

was caught between sadness and pain, as though someone had been

scolding him all of his life.Andy was unlike anyone else in the homeless community; in


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THE CAMP AND THE COOP 3 1

fact, he wasnt really a part of it. He lived in his own world and didnt

talk to anyone. When I said hi to Andy, sometimes he returned the

greeting, but often he just ignored me.

Andy slept outside of a storefront where, every night at around

nine thirty, he created a lean-to shelter out of a twenty-by-twenty-

foot tarp. Then every morning before the store opened at nine, he

took his tarp down and locked it in a secret location he had arranged

with the shop. This was his daily ritual. It seemed to me that his

days consisted of waiting for the store to close at night so he could

stretch out the tarp and recreate his living area, a quiet spot just forhim that was safe and comfortable.

One morning, Neal, one of my constant companions, and

known in the Square for his jovial personality, gave me a carryout

box with a pita and hummus concoction that he had received from a

stranger the night before. I ate a good part of it pretty unappetiz-

ing fare for breakfast and carefully set the remainder in a trash

bin thinking that Andy would walk over to our block in Harvard

Square and find it. Sure enough, Andy wandered over and ate my

leftovers for breakfast.

Jared, a thirty-seven-year-old homeless vegan who bought high-

end vegetables at Whole Foods with food stamps, closely watched

Andy as he picked up the container I had set inside the trash bin.

Jared was quick-witted and carried on a nonstop comedy routine.He was like a Harvard Square version of radio personality How-

ard Stern. Like a school bully always ready to pounce on the class

nerd, he spouted, I hate it when homeless people eat food out of

our dumpster. His isnt dirty enough. Theres no puke or dirt in his

dumpster, so he has to come over to ours. Cause he likes to eat out

of the dirtiest trash cans, with puke and mold and crap. Andy acted

as though he hadnt heard Jared. Maybe in Andys world, he hadnt.


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Eating out of the trash didnt bother me, per se, for I had enjoyed

the benefits of dumpster-diving long before my summer on the

streets. You never know what prizes you might find, including

unopened boxes of doughnuts, cakes, and other sweet treasures.

Success lies in finding the rightdumpster, although some of these

locations where the dumpsters can be found dark parking lots

and foreboding warehouses often look like crime scenes straight

out of Law & Order.

I was particularly fond of Hostess snack cakes, and I found the

perfect location to grab some for me and my friends on the streets.One night, I collected around twenty unopened boxes of snack cakes

that would soon be on their way to a landfill. Dumpster-diving

wasnt just a late-night free-food frenzy; it was saving food from its

unfortunate destiny.

I stashed the doughnuts, Ho Hos, Ding Dongs, chocolate-chip

minimuffins, and low-calorie cinnamon-streusel coffee cakes in a

garbage bag in the shrubs around the parking lot of the subway sta-

tion near Chubby Johns campsite. The next day, because redemp-

tion is always worth celebrating and sharing, and as a way to extend

a token of friendship to those on the streets, I distributed some of

the goodies among the homeless community, handing out the boxes

of treats from the garbage bag as if they were gifts at Christmas.

After a week in the woods at Chubby Johns camp, I decided to begin

sleeping in Harvard Square. At fifteen dollars a week, my subway

pass to get to the tent in the woods was a cost I didnt wish to bear.

And I wanted to begin sleeping in Harvard Square, since thats

where I had chosen to be for the summer.I decided to begin sleeping under the outdoor alcove of the


24/31


Harvard Coop bookstore, the same place I had stood less than

two years before, gazing at the people asleep there. The Coop (pro-

nounced coop and not co-op) was Neals regular sleeping spot

and seemed to me the best place to better acquaint myself with the

homeless community. I learned later that only the brave or the

really desperate slept there.

No, you aint gonna sleep in the Coop, George said to me, like

a principal instructing a deviant child. Youll stay with me on the

porch of the Red Doors Church, or we can sleep right here, he said,

pointing to the Cambridge Common, a large park in town, where wewere standing and where other homeless people slept.

George was the first homeless person I had met in Harvard

Square, when I had seen his blankets on the sidewalk, the day after

I moved to Cambridge. I paused to read his cardboard sign, near a

bowl with a few coins in it. George called out to me from across the

sidewalk, where he was sitting with a couple of friends; he had one of

the strongest Boston accents Id ever heard. He politely extended his

hand to shake mine. His hands looked something like my mothers

hands, crooked and deformed from rheumatoid arthritis. He wore

on his right ring finger an Irish heart ring positioned with the heart

outward, a subtle sign that George, like the rest of us, desired love.

I felt as though I was supposed to befriend George. One time,

I invited him to join me for lunch in a Harvard dining hall, but hepolitely declined, mentioning that he didnt feel comfortable going

inside. Instead, I brought a sandwich for him to the bench he was

sitting on in front of the CVS Pharmacy, where the homeless often

gathered in Harvard Square.

George was instrumental in helping me learn about homeless-

ness. The things that he said and did helped me understand theworld he lived in. George knew I was interested in learning about


25/31


homelessness and had told me, Ill help you however I can, John.

You just let me know.

George was someone I felt I could trust. And George didnt want

me to get hurt while I spent the summer on the streets. I assured

him that I would be safe sleeping under the alcove of the Coop and

that Neal would be sleeping close by.

The day before I began sleeping there, people told me horror

stories about what could happen. I could get head and body lice,

beaten up, robbed, or urinated on. Jared told a story about a woman

peeing in her covers and then trying to get into his. And somebodyelse smiled and said, Be sure you dont sleep downstream!

Chubby John had vowed never to sleep in the Coop, but Neal

had said he slept there because it was convenient and legal. Neal

also said, I love being homeless, bursting out with a big laugh, his

raspy vocal cords shuddering with each exhalation. I dont have to

pay rent. I get free rent right here, he said, as he pointed to the f loor

tiles in the Coops alcove. I can put all my money in my pocket.

Neals comments were similar to what George once told me when

I asked if he liked being out in Harvard Square: I do, but I dont.

Underneath Neals laughter and humor, though, was a man who

wished to get off the streets. He dreamed of someday getting a small

apartment with a friend of his.

But if I did win the Powerball, he said, sitting down on thetiles, Id buy a farm on about twenty acres in Vermont. Id have a

house built and buy a nice car. Im not sure how often Neal bought

a Powerball ticket, but it wasnt a habit. Usually he just bought tick-

ets out of boredom, and usually they were scratch-off tickets, rather

than tickets that won if the numbers matched the daily pick. Im

bored, John, hed say. I think Ill buy a scratch ticket. Then hedwalk into the liquor store near CVS, buy one scratch ticket, bring


26/31


it outside, and scratch the gray coating off with his thumbnail. If

he won, hed ponder whether he should take it back inside and buy

another. If he didnt win, hed say, Oh, well, and toss it into the air

as if he really didnt care. Neal told me that buying them was like

taking money and throwing it into the toilet.

Whereas security guards chased homeless people out of bank

buildings that had twenty-four-hour ATM access, and police might

make people sleeping in other parts of the Square move on, at the

time the police didnt have a problem with people sleeping in the

Coop. Still, each night, Neal mulled over where to sleep, as if it werethe days great decision. For Neal, the safety of his large cart, and

the burden of wheeling it to his sleeping spot, was something he

considered before deciding where to bed down. Sometimes he con-

sidered sleeping in front of a nearby bank. I know everyone who

works in there, and they dont care if I sleep here, hed say. But that

would have been risky. The police or a security guard might wake

him up and make him leave. Sometimes Neal would sleep on NealsIsland, the place everyone else knew as the bus stop. Neal spent a

lot of his time there. He said that he had things stolen in the past

while he slept in the Coop, such as his DVD player, but he also told

me that detectives watched out for people who slept there. At least

thats what he believed. He told me the police had arrested someone

once who was rifling through his stuff. The police woke up Neal

and asked him if he knew the perpetrator. When Neal said he didnt

know him, they hauled the suspect off to jail.

Neal also said that sometimes he woke up and found five- or

ten-dollar bills or food lying beside him from Good Samaritans who

passed by during the night. I hoped that I would be surprised like

that too.


27/31


After Neal went to sleep and Chubby John left for his tent in the

woods, I walked by the Coop, strategizing about where I could lay

down when I was ready to settle in for the night.

At 1:00 a.m. I finally chose my spot, right next to where Neal was

sleeping. I took my little blanket and carefully folded it to make a

one-foot-wide cushion, then laid my sleeping bag down on top of it.

If I didnt move much in the night, I would stay pretty comfortable

on my makeshift mattress. There were six other people scattered

under the alcove, which was a space about twenty feet by twenty feet.

I took off my shoes and, because I dont like to be dirty, madesure that I didnt step on the tiles with my socks. Then I positioned

my backpack as my pillow, and in what became my normal practice,

I stuck the ends of my shoes under my backpack, so if someone

wanted an old pair of Asics, my head would be jostled during the

attempted theft and I would wake up. It wasnt that my shoes were

valuable; its just that they were my only pair.

Then I laid down and tried to sleep. I pulled the sleeping bag

over my head and covered my face to provide whatever privacy was

possible. I had rarely felt so on display. Passersby all night long and

into the morning would see me sleeping there. With my bright-red

fleece sleeping bag, I was sure to be the first one theyd notice.

Pigeons cooed and ruff led their feathers as they nested on top of

the store display cases lining both sides of the Coops alcove. Some-times the pigeons flew from one display case to the next, as if they

were suffering insomnia or having domestic problems. But they

were not nearly as loud as the pedestrian signal a few feet away on

the street. Every time the traffic light changed, twelve loud chirp-

ing sounds pierced the air like an electronic cuckoo clock, alerting

pedestrians that they could safely cross the road. Every few minutes,a bus drove by, and Im quite certain that every bus driver gunned


28/31


the engine as it rounded the corner by the Coop, the thunder echo-

ing in the alcove.

A man stumbled in and out of our sleeping area a few times,

mumbling incoherently. And another guy who always wore a Red

Sox shirt who was always drunk and slept in the Coop without

any blankets or a sleeping bag, even when it was cold came in

and made some noise before he went to sleep, though he was very

apologetic when he thought hed disturbed me.

About forty-five minutes after I laid down, a city public works

crew began power-washing the brick sidewalk, using hoses to whiskaway litter and grime with powerful jets of water from a machine

that sounded like an idling lawn mower.

When you sleep outside, you have to be ready for interruptions,

knowing that, whether it is because of weather conditions or people

disturbing your peace to do midnight cleaning, sleeping outside is

no Holiday Inn.

A few days later, I heard a group of people walk by the Coop

commenting about the homeless, as if their own circumstances

couldnt change, landing them there themselves someday. At 4:40

that same night, a man yelled, Anybody want some pizza? Seeing

me squirm in my sleeping bag to peek out, he asked, Hey, man, you

want some pizza? as though he were passing out hundred-dollar

bills. Its cold, but here you go. I decided to take a slice, but I wouldhave preferred not to be awakened. He then woke another man, who

politely responded, No, thanks.

That first night in the Coop, I huddled in my sleeping bag, hoping Id

fall asleep soon. At 2:00 a.m., a tall woman wearing a gray miniskirt

and a brown sweater and carrying two bags sat down between Neal

and me.


29/31


The closeness of her face startled me as I peeked out from my

cocoon. I said a polite hey as if it were nothing abnormal to have

a stranger crowding my personal space while I was trying to go to

sleep. I had seen her earlier that evening panhandling by CVS, hold-

ing a picture of herself as a child with Santa Claus. Her name was

Teresa, and she was new to Harvard Square.

Teresa tried to get Neals attention. But he was sound asleep.

David didnt open the door for me tonight, she said in a heart-

broken tone. Neal didnt budge. David didnt open the door for me

tonight, she said again.Lie down right here, Neal said, patting his hand on the tiles

between us.

She sat on his sleeping bag, looking confused and alone. She blew

her nose and cried. Her legs were bare, and I imagined she was cold.

I lay there considering what to do. I thought about opening up

my sleeping bag so she would have a place to lay down. After a few

minutes, I sat up and unzipped my bag. Without giving her a chance

to say no, I said, Teresa, you can use my sleeping bag; Im going to

go up the street. I cant sleep. And then I picked up my backpack,

put on my shoes, and left, hoping to get my sleeping bag back the

next morning.

I found a couple of homeless people I knew sitting next to the

bank. One of them was Bernard, who was mostly nocturnal. Aftera few minutes, the two of us walked to a couple of benches where he

planned to try to stay warm for the night. Bernard snuggled with

his sleeping bag while we sat on the bench, which was wet from an

earlier rain. You shouldnt give your stuff away, he scolded in his

typically terse manner. You need that.

I soon made my way to the Red Doors Church a church in

town that all the homeless identified by the color of its doors


30/31


where I thought I would be able to get some sleep on its cement

porch. Before I walked there, I passed by the Coop again and saw

Teresa nestled comfortably in my sleeping bag next to Neal.

In the morning, Neal and Teresa were sitting together, trying

to stay warm. See my new girlfriend? he asked, half-jokingly. She

followed Neal around the rest of the day, giving him the attention he

always loved, but denying she was his girlfriend. Neal seemed to like

having Teresa as a new companion. Before the end of the summer,

though, she would be gone, and we would all learn something about

her that came as a big surprise.


31/31

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homeless at harvard (excerpt)

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